


you should have been nicer about the disciples

by intothewildblueyonder



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1966, Angst, Beatles - Freeform, Bigger than Jesus, Fluff, Humour, Love, M/M, McLennon, No girls/wives for John&Paul, Over-dramatised, Sadness, That's right Jane and Cynthia don't exist, Violence, character injury, friends - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-14 12:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 10,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13590051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intothewildblueyonder/pseuds/intothewildblueyonder
Summary: The 1966 tour of America, and the 'bigger than Jesus' controversy. Here's the basics: John and Paul are a couple (secretly, of course). There's going to be angst and hurt. None of this really happened.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Can also be found on Wattpad.

**1966.**

The USA has sent numerous troops to Vietnam. Casualties are on the rise. Young men are still being called up to fight against the threat of communism. To combat this demonstrations and protests are beginning, people burning their draft cards. This achieves very little.

Inflation rises, as do hemlines, and it's impossible to tell what scandalises the older generation more. In their day, there was both a stable economy and a sense of modesty, for crying out loud. _How the times do change_.

There is _something_ going on in space, but outside of NASA who cares? All the space probes and black holes can't compare to what drama can play out among the people.

John Lennon is still _very_ much in love with Paul McCartney, in case you're curious, but that is kept out of the private eye. They keep their kissing and affection behind closed doors; pulling it out into the open would wreck everything they've worked for. Boys who shy from the fairer sex are ones still unwelcome in the sixties, even those who are the very face of popular music .

And, on that note, there is Beatlemania. Won't there always be? The screams, the love letters, the packed stadiums. But even this is changing- the Fab Four are getting more serious, after all. Their songs are no longer, as some reviewers have unkindly claimed, _a study in teenage-boy pubescence, with an overuse of the word love_. They are becoming young men.

Young men who still manage to land themselves in a lot of trouble, it seems. Which isn't really fair to the three-quarters of the group who _can keep their bloody mouths shut_ , as Brian yells at John (the single statistic, the one-in-four who managed to set this snowball rolling).

 _Bigger than Jesus,_ Paul groans. _What the hell were you thinking?_

John, as you can imagine, gets angry at this. He fights back. He complains about the stupidity of the American public. He sticks by his statement.

He will, in time, come to greatly regret this.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Chicago_

They try to get him to take back his words.

They try to make him apologise.                                

They tell him of all the fans who have burned their records. John leans back in his seat and says well, more fool them, they've destroyed works of genius. _Please Please Me_ too? Shame, that was his favourite.

In short, John is John.

Even Paul, who can talk John into everything from wearing a fucking pressed-and-prim monkey suit (he's meant to be a rocker, for crying out loud) to being nice to Eppy, doesn't break through.

"They're bloody angry, Johnny," he so helpfully points out after an interview, when they're back in their hotel room.

"Really?" John asks sarcastically, gesturing to the table of hate mail. "I hadn't noticed."

_Beatles suck._

_Go back home._

_We don't want you here._

Paul slumps into an armchair, the classic expression of world-weariness on his face. And a touch of exasperation, of course.

"This isn't just a Nazi salute in Hamburg, you arse. These people are furious, it's nothing something you can just toss off with a smile."

John rolls his eyes. "First of all, that was years ago and a show of respect for their culture." (Utter bullshit, but there you have John). "Secondly, they can all cry over Jesus H. Christ for as long as they want. I'm not backing down."

"Of course you're not." Paul sighs. "Why am I even surprised?"

 _Because they're the ones who have got it wrong_ , John silently screams. _Why the hell should I apologise for their mistakes?_

Instead of saying this, he's too tired to get into an argument and there is a very nice bed just waiting a few steps away, John kicks the door closed and walks over to Paul.

"Listen, mate, this'll blow over. We'll perform, the birds will scream themselves hoarse, everything will go on as it's meant to." Seeing how worried Paul looks, he softens his tone. "They'll have to calm down once they see yer beautiful face, hey?"

"It certainly works on you," Paul concedes.

John grabs Paul's wrists and pulls him up into a kiss.

" 'M nervous, love," Paul mumbles. "Going out in front of them-"

"Hey, they know by now that you're mine," John teases. "They won't dare to mess with any of yous."

Famous last words, anyone?

                                        *******************************************

John will not admit it to anyone - even Paul, whom he has loved and trusted through this entire three-ring circus - but he's scared too. Oh, it's a slow-growing fear, tucked into the corner of his mind, but it's there. They have played for various audiences; not just the usual screaming _I love Ringo! Paul is my boy! Marry me George!_ fangirls, but businessmen, music-magazine writers, pensioners watching with polite befuddlement and asking afterwards what twisting and shouting really is, _these new dance crazes ey Agnes?_

But this, this will be the first time they will play for an audience that hates them. Not just the music they write, or the way they have unintentionally become figureheads of Britain (oops...our bad), but them as _people_.

For daring to have opinions and saying the wrong thing. Really, John thinks, he thought if their careers would be at risk over anything, it would be due to the fact that he and Paul have been, well, _doing the dance of the intimate_ for years.

Life is funny like that.


	3. Chapter 3

_Memphis, backstage_

"So, lads. A game of I-Spy then?" John beamed at his three bandmates, the very picture of charm and boyish humour. _Why, fearing for my life? Who said that, no-siree, I'm as chipper as can be._

"Why not," George said sarcastically. "Oh look, I spy thousands of people wishing we'd never come to America."

"I could see at least three members of the Klan at the airport," Ringo said in a mournful tone. "So what can you make from the letters KKK, John?"

"Lay off, you lot," Paul mumbled from the corner. He had been sitting there since they arrived backstage, head bowed, hands clasped. John wondered if Paul was praying, or at least pretending to - hoping a photographer will catch him all _Lordy hear my prayers_ and decide they're not such bad boys after all. He's Mister Publicity for a reason, always three steps ahead of this bloody flea circus.     

"Of course you defend him," George snapped. "You always will, won't you?"

Paul groaned. "This is not the time-" 

"It's the fucking time! We're about to go out in front of people who've been sending death threats-"

"The other shows were fine, it's all been fine so far!"

"Oh _well_ then," George spat out. "Obviously you're not interested, so should I just shut up and not say anything?"

"Is that an option?" John asked. George muttered something rhyming with _duck cough_ in John's direction and turned back to Paul.

"Why aren't you angrier?" George was pink in the face, eyes narrowed in frustration. "We're losing fans over Lennon and his big mouth-"

"I'm right here, thank you-"

"This is not what we wanted when we were younger, this is not the dream we shared of being at the top!"

Paul let out a derisive laugh. "The dream? Mate, this hasn't been how we wanted it for years! This, this whole debacle, it's a bloody nightmare and you've been whining your thick head off over it for the past month, so don't play the oh-poor-George act!"

George recoiled as if he'd been slapped. It seemed that even the 'nice Beatle' would snap, if pushed too far. John couldn't help but feel sorry for George; he knew how close the young lad was to Paul, the history they shared. The friendship that now, set against touring and No.1 hits, was being tested. They'd all been on edge since the tour had begun, and frankly if they made it through without turning to a fistfight he'd be surprised.

Because Paul did, after all, have a good point: this _wasn't_ fun anymore. The first few years had been novel and exciting, but by now it was a tiring grind. And they were the four mop-topped workhorses being placed on display again and again, staggering from show to show, weary of it all.

"All right, lads," Ringo cut in with authority. "Let's not get into a barney, eh? I don't want to show my Dingle side."

Just like that, tempers calmed. A few jokes were made, Ringo and George starting discussing some of the girls they'd seen on the way in, fags were passed around.

John, after checking that they still had five minutes (and not really caring; who gave a shit if they went on late, they were the Beatles) went over to Paul. His bandmate had fallen back into a chair, staring at his burning cigarette in a way that suggested he was finding it hard to keep his eyes open.

"Paul."

"Mmm?"

"All right?"

"Tired, mate." He yawned a little. "Never thought I'd say this, but 'm starting to get tired of all the touring."

John acts aghast, clapping one hand to his chest. "No! Our Macca?"

"Better believe it, love."

"Well, don't tell George...the shock of being right for once will send him over the edge."

"No, can't have that," Paul chuckled. They instinctively leaned into each other, just one more of the gestures they'd trialled over the years. There was a surprising amount of affection they could escape with - the looks, the subtle flirting, even holding hands under tables. It wasn't ideal, but needs must when love can get you arrested.

"We're halfway over, princess," John whispered in Paul's ear. "And when it's over we can take a nice holiday. Somewhere romantic, like Spain or Greece."

"Ah, you're just saying that to get into me trousers," Paul snorted. "Promise the world for that, you do." John elbowed him and they exchanged a quick cigarette.

Needless to say, that was the last good moment of the day.


	4. Chapter 4

_Memphis still, onstage_

They are halfway through their third song, _If I Needed Someone_ \- George's own song, because they had to give him something or he'd sulk and moan about how little he was allowed to contribute, taking him for granted, blah blah blah.

Normally they'd be surrounded by eager fans, waving and shrieking and throwing themselves onto the stage - oh, there's no shortage of them, don't get me wrong, but mixed in are people with faces full of hate. Signs telling them to go home. Screaming abuse at them. Hating them.

"Bloody 'ell, they're not taking to this very well," John mutters to Paul, who just gives him the flat look. The one that says _why do you think that is?_

John really hates that look, especially coming from Paul. The only looks acceptable from his Paul are (1) looks of love and devotion or (2) the delightful expression Paul gets mid-orgasm. That's it.

But then, he really has fucked this one up.

                                 ********************************************************

Christie Vreeland is one of those in the audience who actually came for the Beatles. She loves them, of course she does - compared to the foul-mouthed boys, her only option, that populate her high school, these four boys are angels. Romantic, talented, not likely to try and feel you up in a parking lot (some boys are driven by what's inside their trousers regardless of place, enough said). And if they _did_ , it would be romantic, she can tell. You don't write such heart-stopping songs without knowing how to treat a woman well.

There are some empty seats out in the audience - unheard of - but in her little area the fan club is alive and well. Handmade posters are being waved in the air, speckling everyone with glitter. One girl, looking like she hasn't slept in days, informs them she's going to meet John Lennon - "or die trying." Christie talks to another fan about their favourite songs, and the backlash the Beatles have received. They complain about their parents, so old-fashioned, kicking up over the Jesus issue. She has seen the protesters on the way in, but it's easy to dismiss them. The Beatles are eternal, all this will have to blow over soon.

When the show starts she screams, high and piercing, a little embarrassing, but they are so much better in the flesh. In front of her instead of in 45RPM form, so real and perfect. They're hard to hear above the crowd but they're _here_.

Her girl-friend screams next to her, bouncing up and down, wearing three _I love Paul_ buttons. Christie is more of a Ringo girl - those _eyes_ \- but no matter how she cranes her neck, all she can see are his drumsticks and a few locks of hair. They're packed in, girls yelling in her ears, and it's all so _exciting_. Who cares what the Beatles said, who cared that her parents forced her to burn her records, she's here, she's part of something she'll live to tell her kids about.

The crowd is so loud, it takes a moment for the gunshot to register.


	5. Chapter 5

_Oh how long will it take, till she sees the mistake she has made?_

John is so jarred by the noise that he keeps playing, fingers automatically plucking out the familiar chords.

_Dear, what can I do?_

Because no one fired a gun, surely. He must have imagined it, because who would fire at the Beatles? The friendly mop-tops next door, with the Ed Sullivan tick of approval.

_Baby's in black and I'm feeling blue_

That's the image they've worked to build up, before he ruined it, but despite that no one would try to KILL them, surely -

A second shot rings out.

And then, he sees Paul - his Paul - fall.

 

He isn't even aware of the scream that tears itself free from his mouth.

                                        ******************************

Later, those in the audience will muse over how a boy with such a beautiful voice could produce such a horrible sound.

As if his heart truly was breaking, and it wasn't part of a song, a _ooh-my-baby's-left-me_ touch of sorrow.

_Tell me, ooh, what can I do..._


	6. Chapter 6

"PAUL!"

His hands on Paul and is he breathing, _please tell me he's breathing, God I'll apologise to your son and go into the church and devote my life to prayer, Hail Mary and all that, just let Paul be all right._

He's clutching his chest and oh fuck, John does not want to see this, does not want to see the blood splattered on his shirt. This has to be a bad dream.

Below them the audience is going into hysteria. _Shut up!_ John inwardly screams. _He's mine, you don't get to worry about him, you don't get to cry his name. Hands-fucking-off because it's your stupid misunderstandings that got us here in the first place._

Someone grabs him by the shoulders, pulls him away, and John fights like a wildcat. He has to be by Paul, has to breathe life back into him, will reach into his godamn chest and pull the hurt out if he has to.

"John, calm down!" It's George, so pale he looks like a silver-screen vampire. Just a touch of white powder, a few plastic pointy teeth, and the fear comes rolling in. But this isn't something John can walk out of, this is a nightmare of his own creation and if Paul dies

_(NO)_

it'll be his fault.

All

his

fault.

"John - John, look at me. Lennon, you bloody fool, look at me."

"George, move!"

There is a third gunshot - no, _please no more_. George hits the deck; doesn't even stop to drop his guitar, just goes head-over-heels, flat on his bony face, however you want to put it.

Ringo ducks behind his drums, holding one cymbal over his face which could almost be laughable - _here Ringo, that's a fine way to treat your baby!_

John throws himself over Paul, pinning his love to the ground, and actually _feels_ a bullet whistle by his face. He can feel the bassist shaking beneath him, can feel something sticky under his hands.

 _Blood._ They are trapped like rats, completely at the mercy of some bible-bashing kiss-the-cross loon, and Paul is... _no, don't think it._

"Boys!" Brian is standing by the stage (safe in the wings, the fortunate bastard) face terrified. "GET OFF!"

"It's a tad tricky, y'see, what with the _fucking bullets flying around!_ " John screams back at him.

Paul clings to him, shaking, tears running down his cheeks.

"It's going to be all right, love," John whispers. Stupid. _Pathetic._

A promise delivered far too late.

John dares to look out at the crowd. Their audience is fleeing in droves. More than a few girls seem to have fainted, poodle skirts up around their knees and white under all that rouge. Police officers are racing towards them, fighting against the tide. The first groups mount the stage and John can finally breathe out in relief.

_Thank you Christ, thank you all the saints and sinners._

Someone is pulling at John, dragging him into a standing position because for some reason his legs feel weak and isn't that just fucking _dandy_ , he's weak with fear.

"Mr Lennon? Mr Lennon, can you hear me?"

"Move," John commands, shoving Bobby Blue #1 inside and bending to Paul again. There's only one wound but it's in a terrible position: on the left, just below his heart. _X marks the spot_ , John thinks absurdly.

He only realises he's panicking, whining like a wounded animal, when George tugs him away.

"Calm down, Lennon!" George - the quiet one, how's that for irony - shrieks in his face. "You're getting hysterical-"

"Paul, he's hurt, he's bleeding!"

"I know, I saw!" George yells back. "They're getting him help, look, _look at me John_."

A second set of arms grabs him around the middle, keeping him steady - Ringo, still clutching his drumsticks.

"Ambulance coming!"

"We need to carry him out, they're at the entrance," Brian informs them. He's shaking, probably figuring out how much the future of the Beatles will be compromised if Paul-

NO! The mere thought makes John want to scream and never stop.

They stumble over wires and boxes of mics, police by their side, carrying Paul (who is bleeding so much, too fucking much, and John can't _bear_ it). It seems like an age before they reach the front, before Paul is taken from them.

"Thank God," George gasps upon sighting the ambulance.

"You sure you want to...bring him up again?" Paul whispers, eyelids fluttering. "They'd think we were just rubbing it in - oh fuck that _HURTS_!"

"I'm sorry, sir," the ambulance technician says as he lifts Paul, eases him down on the bed inside, and even though he's trying to be gentle John quickly weighs up the pros/cons of kicking his teeth in. Hurting Paul, who has dropped the smart-assery

(but John wants to hear it again, wants Paul to make fun of everything, hum a tune, tap imagined piano keys on tables and chairs, be _all right_ )

is not acceptable.

"We'll follow you," Brian says, gesturing to his band. No. No bloody way.

"I'm going with them," John says, something in the set of his face leaving no room for argument.

"John-"

"I'm _going_ ," he snarls.

He climbs in next to Paul, who is having his jacket pulled off, his shirt opened to dress the wound. Paul is whimpering softly, his eyes set determinedly upon the ceiling.

"Careful there!" John snaps as the man - whom John is _really_ not warming to - jerks Paul a little too hard, resulting in a whine of pain.

"You're the ones from that film, ain'tcha?" And he says it _conversationally_ , like this is just a typical British meeting over tea and the person John loves the most hasn't just been shot.

"Yes, and he's McCartney, worth a helluva lot and the future of music, so will you just _steady ya damn hands!"_

"Ignore him," Paul mutters, always trying to steady the boat as Lennon rocks it. "You're doin' a fine job...I've never been more comfy."

The man (his name tag is missing) stands up, moves to the foot of the bed, and John shuffles closer to Paul. His knees are aching on the hard floor, a pretence of prayer. _Bless me O father for I have sinned in so many ways._

"Paul," he whispers.

"Don't look at me like that," Paul gasps out.

"I don't wanna be looking at your ugly mug, don't worry." Paul chuckles and winces in the same breath. "But if I don't...you'll slip away."

"Oh no." His...his partner, the fucking love of his _life_ is shaking, voice fading. "I'm not leaving you."

John looks down and see he's holding Paul's hand - he wasn't even aware - so tightly his knuckles have gone white.

And perhaps the man is looking at them oddly, ticking off something in his mind, but John can't give a fuck. Let a little tidbit of gossip be sold to some pulpy rag; let a few rumours fly before they're forgotten and bedded. _Ah yes, the queers of Liverpool._ Compared to everything else, that could only be a storm in a teacup.

"Lennon," Paul chokes, trying to sit up -

"No, stay still-"

He falls back, shaking, one hand to his chest and oh, John would sacrifice anything to get that look off Paul's face -

And then.

He collapses, chest barely falling and rising.

John feels the panic building, tearing out of him with a panicked "PAULIE!"

_"Drive faster goddamnit!"_


	7. Chapter 7

_At the hospital_

The emergency waiting room practically oozed despair. It dripped off the lights, crawled along the floor, sat in the chairs and swung its legs like a child at the movies. _Ooh, Mummy, here comes the good part! It's where the hero - or villain, take your pick - loses the man he loves!_ George could taste the fear that built up in this room. The very end of the line, where one wrong move could make or break everyone.

John was slumped in a chair, head in his hands. While Brian went to check in George and Ringo moved towards him, automatically shielding him from the other people waiting.

He looked up at them with the face of a broken man.

"Say it," he croaked. "It's my fault, admit it, I know you want to."

It was bizarre seeing John like this - eyes rimmed with red, tears shining on his cheeks. George still saw John as the lad on top of the world, the one he had met in his youth: a boy built from broken guitar strings and smirks and a mouth constantly spitting expletives. Strong, iron-framed. He had been - hell, he still was - to young George, a hero.

You didn't think of John as a man who could be hurt by anything. But of course, Paul wasn't just _anything_. If the love songs were to be believed Paul was John's reason for living, his steady beat, his _star in the sky_ and so on, so forth.

George couched down beside him. "You prat," he said softly. "Always having to make it about _you_."

John let out what may have been a laugh, may have been a sob.

"They took him off, Geo. He's in one of those fucking rooms and he's hurt because of me-"

"That's enough of that," Ringo said with grave authority. "You'd never hurt him, John, we all know that."

"But it's my fault that there was some fucker with a gun roaming around, try and connect the bloody dots," John snarled. "And if-" His voice cracked at this and both musicians embraced him, letting him cling to them, hardly aware that they were beginning to cry themselves.

                          *****************************

_He was floating._

_Stuck in the darkness, where it was safe and warm. Voices danced at the edge of his vision. Met, collided, bowed and backed away. A overlapping crescendo interspersed with beeping._

_Hey John, he tried to say - but his mouth wasn't working, why couldn't he speak - why don't we try some sort of orchestral buildup on the next album?_

_Sod off, John grinned. It'll be proper rock the way they like it, not poncey trumpets and violins. Just to piss you off, Mr Artiste, it'll be nothing but me playing guitar at high speed._

_Where am I?_

_Mr McCartney, can you hear me?_

_(Come into the light!)_

_Can you hear me?_

_Go 'way, he mumbled. Let me sleep._

_Blood loss..._

_Fractures to the sternum..._

_Missed all his major organs..._

_John. Where was John?_

_There was something closing around his chest._

_Pulse slowing!_

_No, wait -_

_We're losing him._

                                           ********************************

Years passed. Civilisations fell. Men walked on the moon. You get the picture for the group waiting, how long it seemed before the doctor appeared.

"We got him on the operating table in time." John visibly perked up, his eyes alight with hope.

_Fingers crossed._

_You might as well wish on a star, a whole galaxy of them._

"The bullet entered here-" he tapped his breastbone to demonstrate, "- fracturing his sternum. It broke through muscle and tissue. However, due to the speed the bullet was travelling at and the distance between him and the shooter, the bullet not only missed his heart but tore out his back."

The picture immediately popped into John's mind - a wide wound ripping apart Paul's body - and he was powerless to wipe it away.

"In many ways, that's a good thing. If the bullet had shattered inside his body several of his organs might have ended up impaled."

The doctor paused, took off his glasses, and began to polish them.

"We got him onto the table in time...but the team is doubtful. The adrenaline shock and size of the wound caused a massive blood loss. He is still unconscious and they're not picking up on a very strong pulse. You might want to... get everything in order."

John felt his heart stutter to a stop.

"What do you mean?"

The doctor, who looked like he'd rather be anywhere than with them, sighed. "I mean that we will do everything we can, but that you should prepare yourself to lose him."

_You should be ready to say goodbye._


	8. Chapter 8

_You should be ready to say goodbye._

George allows himself one tiny second of horror at the thought - one blink of _dear God I'm going to lose my friend_ \- before he automatically grabs for John. Just in time, too; he catches John at the arm as he leaps at the doctor with a roar.

_"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"_

George digs his heels in, struggling to hold John because fuck knows what kind of harm he'll inflict if set free, and the last thing they need is an assault charge against their leader. And he knew when to reach out because at heart John is still the little boy afraid of being left behind. Because at the very mention of someone leaving him he goes mad. Because George knew he'd react like just a child deprived of his favourite toy: with fists clenched, going out swinging at the whole world.

Ringo, who usually melts into the wall at any sign of conflict (some lesson hard learnt from childhood, no doubt) moves forward to pull John back. And moves back immediately at the _furious_ look at John's face.

"You're one of those, aren't you?!" John spits at the poor doctor. "You're one of the _idiots,_ you're angry, you want to make me pay, you want me to be sorry and to have learnt my lesson, you're making this up so I'll say what you want next time!"

"John, calm down!" Brian bellows. "People are looking-"

"I don't give a shit about _people_!"

"I assure you, Mr Lennon," the doctor stammers, "whatever opinion I might have of your actions has no bearing on my professional behaviour."

John glares at him, looking ready to kill. Then, as suddenly as flicking a switch he slumps, boneless, in George's arms, sobs wracking his body.

"He can't die," John whispers.

_I can't lose him too._


	9. Chapter 9

_"He's pulled through."_

_The entire world hinges, turns on those words._

_"He's pulled through."_

_Smiles all round._

_"He's pulled though."_

_They're not over yet._

                                            *****************************

After two hours of waiting, there is no argument over who will see Paul first. The moment he is declared ready for a visitor John leaps to his feet, a look on his face that makes it clear he will throttle _anyone_ who tries to get in before him. George and Ringo meekly accept this, and sink back into their chairs. Brian goes off to make calls, inform the papers, calm fans, gloss everything over. (And he'll probably search for a stiff drink afterwards, but who are they to judge?)

John almost runs through the hall, each footfall echoed by the doctor's words running through his mind.

_Very lucky...he'll be all right...managed to start his heart again...take it easy for a while..._

Well, that should be doable. John, for one, will have no qualms about tying Paul to the bed if he means he'll be

_(whole_

_with me)_

okay.

Room 212.

Paul is lying on the bed, hooked up to various machines that John does not want to think about, pale and drawn and _there_ , not six feet under, not on some holy plane where everyone wears a halo and the heavenly choir never stops, but right where he belongs, where John can look after him and _love_ him.

For a moment he stands in the doorway, frozen, then staggers - like a drunkard, like a dying man - over to Paul, who opens his eyes and smiles.

"Hey babe," Paul mumbles sleepily.

Of course, the only way for John to respond is to lean over and start peppering him with kisses - quick, desperate ones, the ones you press upon the cheek of a lover you will not see again.

And it was so close to that, so _horribly_ close.

"John?" Paul says in surprise. "What-"

"Shh," John hisses, letting his hands roam over Paul, stroking him. Solid flesh. A muttering pulse on his neck.

 _Yes. Okay._ This is real, he has been so lucky.

Paul moves into his embrace, kissing John square on the lips

_(oh Christ he still has blood in his mouth I can TASTE it)_

lifting one hand to cup his face. " 'M all right," he assures, holding John close so there's only a small space between them, where they can share a single heartbeat. "They say it was close."

"So fucking close," John ascertains.

"I could..." Paul pauses, thinking. Then he begins to shake as it all rushes back, a delayed horror blooming on his face, and John climbs onto the bed so he can hold him. "I could _feel_ myself beginning to go, John, I could hear everything and then it was like falling, I know it sounds mad but-"

John hugs him as tight as he dares and Paul melts into him, soundlessly crying.

They sit like that, legs entwined, John muttering an endless stream of assurances, until Paul's eyes are dry.

"It could have been worse," Paul mutters. John takes his cue - that they, being Northern men, don't have to speak of this again - and asks, "How?"

A tiny grin quirks Paul's mouth. "Could've hit Ringo's drums, then we would've spent the rest of the tour coaxing him out of a sulk."

John laughs. "Forget that, he would have run down and strangled the shooter on the spot."

"Better I was in the way."

John shakes his head. "Paul, don't - don't say that."

"It's a joke, love," Paul says softly.

"I thought I was going to lose you," John chokes out. He hates having to say that.

_So weak._

_They all leave you._

_It's your fault._

He hears Paul sigh. "John, look at me."

He can't do that. He's already wearing his heart on his sleeve, bleeding all over the floor. If he sees pity in Paul's eyes - because Paul understands what it's like to be left behind, how much it hurts - he'll have to run out of the room.

_(Oh please, don't run and hide..._

_'Cause I couldn't stand the pain)_

"You think I'd leave you?" Paul chuckles, and he dares to glance up. "None of you would get _anywhere_ without me." Gentle. No hate, no malice on his face.

"Git."

"You still love me."

"Obviously."

"Anyway. It's over now."

 _Just_ when he thought he'd found sure footing, the world tips again.

"You mean...us?"

"God, no!" Paul stares at him, aghast. "I meant touring, Johnny! Brian will have to call it off now, we can leave, we won't have to worry any more! Why would you think _that?_ "

John brushes over the end of the tour (although that will happen, he'll be damned if he lets Paul on a stage again) and grabs Paul's hands. He needs to be assured.

"But _we're-_ "

"We're fine," Paul promises. "No matter what, through hellfire and damnation. Even when we're old and grey and can't remember our names, you'll _always_ be mine."

That. That's as close as they can ever get to thoughts of a future. They've been living on borrowed time, skipping from record to record, keeping busy so they don't have time to sit and think. To acknowledge how much it will take to hold them together for another day, month, year. John will _never_ get to go down on one knee, never get to introduce Paul as his partner, never be able to take his hand on the street without fear of being seen and getting his head smashed in.

With _that,_ with _everything_ that's happened, Paul's words lift a weight from his shoulders.

"Good," he mutters. Because what else can he say, except:

"Does this mean you forgive me?"

And there it goes, his eyes back to his lap.

"I was never angry with you," Paul whispers. He puts a hand under John's chin, tipping it up, forcing them to meet eye-to-eye. "Because it was never your fault, John. You're an arse - don't hit an injured man! - but you'd never do anything to hurt us. Any of us."

"I love you," John whispers, and that's enough to stand in for _thank you, thank you for tolerating me and standing by me, for everything, for having a heart that can stand anything and keep on ticking._

And Paul understands, because he always does.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NONE OF THIS HAPPENED AND IT'S NOT MEANT TO BE REALISTIC. I'm pretty sure no one in America was this bad, it's exaggerated. Don't leave hate! Good night.

_Two days after_

"Bad news, boys."

None of them looked up from the card game taking place. Brian raised his voice. "I said-"

"We 'eard, and not to be rude, Eppy, but we don't care," John said glibly. Paul shoved him gently, a _Miss Manners_ reminder.

"You need to hear this," Brian insisted, taking the centre of the room. They finally looked up, and something in John's chest began to anxiously flutter. Brian looked like a man about to deliver terrible news; his face was drawn, hangdog, slightly abashed.

_Please_

_(please me oh yeah like I)_

_I, I, I_

_can't take any more bad news_

_(please you)._

"They still haven't found the shooter?"

"Disappeared without a trace."

"Hopeless," John growled. "Those idiots couldn't find their own arses without a map."

Brian took a deep breath. "I contacted all the venues you were going to play at - John, this is important."

John pulled himself off George's shoulder, where he had pretended to fall asleep, and yawned dramatically. "Oh sorry, old chap, I suppose you're just that _dull_." Because if he played the fool nothing bad could happen. If he delayed the news and ducked, dived, pushed it out of the way, everything would remain fine.

"You're still angry at me for Memphis," Brian said cooly.

"What makes you think that? You only _Ringo put that card back_ allowed a madman to gun down Paul _I saw you rig the deck you filthy cheat."_

"I'm innocent!" Ringo protested. "An' so's Brian. It's not his fault everyone over here is crazy."

_Barmy, off yer rocker, rubber-walls crazy._

John simply glared at Brian one last time, then turned back to his hand. "Two aces," he announced.

"Five kings," Ringo said with a perfectly straight face.

"Can never trust a Dingle lad," George ruminated as he took Ringo's cards and tutted at the extra king: a bit of notepaper with a K written on it. In some way, they were all covering their eyes. _What I don't acknowledge can't hurt me._

_"Boys!"_

"What do you want?" John grumbled.

"It's about Candlestick Park."

"The what now?"

"The last venue on this tour," Brian ground out. "Would it kill you to memorise your schedules?"

No one saw John flinch at _kill_.

"What do they want?"

Brian hesitated, beginning to wring his hands. "I called to cancel the show, and every other place cooperated. They all understood that you would be anxious about getting onto a stage again-"

"Just spit it out," John said in a low, dangerous voice. That was the voice from which natural disasters began.

"Well, you're not going to take this very well."

His chest collapsed. _(It's over now, John)._

"I did all I could to change their minds."

His hands were starting to shake. _(We'll be fine)._

"What?"

He couldn't breathe. _(We'll be fine)_.

"They still want you to perform."

George let out a low moan.

"Are they mad? Did they not see what happened last time?" Ringo spat.

John concentrated on breathing. On not thinking of Paul still and cold in his arms. A pine box, an array of flowers. _Rest in peace._

"They say it's too late to refund all the tickets, that if we cancel there'll be rioting and a huge box office loss," Brian said weakly.

"So pay them off," Paul said in a voice struggling to be firm, but with fear squirming under the surface. "Say we'll compensate."

Their manager shook his head. "They're not opening it up for discussion. The owner said they'll sue us for breach of contract."

"Oh no, some money lost," John said sarcastically. Barbed-wire voice, _beware all ye who push me too far_. "That, or losing one of the Beatles? One member of the band that got you out of that crappy little music store and fraternising with all the high-up fags."

"John, don't say-" Paul cut in, and John grabbed him by the shoulders. An automatic action, something he would do thousands of times a day to pull Paul closer

_(closer_

_let me whisper in your ear)_

to tell him something important. But of course this was the _after_ , and Paul winced as John pulled on his stitches, hidden under a ream of bandage.

"Sorry, sorry," John burbled. "But don't tell me to be _nice_ and _polite_ to him. This is his fault." He turned to Brian. "Did you even fight for us? Or did the owner of Crapstick Park just give you the eyes and you gave in to him, you utter _cunt_?"

_"John!"_

"Reduced ticket prices, they're promising," Brian said desperately. "Door checks, extra security-"

"Extra security, guvnor?" John mocked. "Aren't we _lucky_ boys?"

"We can't, Brian," Paul said, his voice shaking. "I don't think I could get up on a stage again and-"

"S'alright, love, you won't have to," John said softly. For a moment, his tenderness shone through. "I'll go bankrupt before we go there."

"John, please," Brian said desperately. "At least listen to me-"

"You don't _understand_ ," John said in the voice of a man explaining how one and one make two. "I can't lose him."

George pointedly cleared his throat. "And what're we, mate? Chopped liver?"

The look John gave him made George shrink in his chair. "Either say something useful or keep yer gob shut, Harrison. I meant you too."

He swallowed.

"Any of you."

He loved Paul ( _for better, for worse, in sickness and health_ and so on) but he loved Ringo and George too, though he'd never admit it. Tough-as-boots boys didn't say things like that. But the drummer-boy and Geo were his friends, his foundations. Losing them would destroy him, one way or another.

"Why the fuck do they want us to play? Did they somehow miss what happened to Paul, that he was..." He trailed off, because how could he connect _Paul_ with _shot, dead, hurt_? It defied some holy law.

"Yes, John, and that's what they _want_!" Brian shouted back. "They want you to go out because they want you to be afraid."

It slid into place.

"So I think twice next time," John said cooly. Brian nodded.

"Half of America wants you to play for _you_. The other half wants you sorry."

"But we can't!" Ringo blurted out.

"We do this, or they drag us through court."

"But that doesn't make sense," Paul pleaded. "They _can't_ sue us for self-peservation."

"I think you'd find many people willing to defend them," Brian sighed. "You're not exactly popular here at the moment. Breaking a formal agreement, disappointing the fans, putting the venue and owners in debt...they could spin it quite nicely."

Funny, really - their room, so cozy, seemed to have dropped several degrees in the last minute.

"I'm sorry, boys, but there's no way out."

 


	11. Chapter 11

"John, for the last time, we have to do this."

" _We_? I'm sorry, Brian, where do you come into this? You get to sit offstage and be quite safe, from what _I_ recall."

Brian sent a desperate look at the other three on the couch. None of them dared to intervene; with John so angry, that was a sure-fire way to get your head bitten off.

"We don't have a _choice_ ," their manager enunciated. "I tried to find a way out, believe me."

John turned and walked out the door, returning a second later. The slump of his shoulders signalled defeat, loud and clear.

"Four songs," he fired off, rat-a-tat-tat. "We get on, play, leave. No introductions, no Paul flirting with the audience. And as soon as it's over, we leave this insane country."

"Well-"

"That, or you can forget it."

He glared at Brian. Brian sighed. "Very well, boys. And I'm sorry."

"Shove it," John said calmly, and disappeared from the room. A few seconds later, a great crash came from the adjoining bedroom.

Brian looked helplessly at Paul, who stood up and muttered, "Fine, I'll do it." They all knew Paul was the only one who could calm John when he was angry, could hold him back and stopping him from throwing a punch, insulting a reporter, screaming at someone.

Paul entered their bedroom, where John had already overturned a table and was now smashing a lamp, the base lying in china shards around his feet. Paul winced in sympathy for the poor cleaning staff.

"John."

"WHAT!"

"Stop it," Paul said softly. "This isn't going to help."

A harsh laugh came from John. "Aye, good point. Maybe I should go and smash up some of the pricks out there." He pointed down at the fans outside, signs, banners, screaming, business as usual. "D'ye think that'd help? We can't play if I'm dancing the jailhouse rock, hmm?"

Obviously a pacifying voice wasn't going to work. This left only one option - to get angry himself, to try and drown John's fury with a wave of his own.

"You think _you're_ scared?" Paul snapped. "You think you can yell at me? I was the one _shot_ but I'm keeping it together, so either calm the hell down or you're sleeping on the couch tonight!"

They glowered at each other until John finally smiled.

"That the best you can do? Not even threaten to throw me out the window? You're slipping, love."

Paul felt his mouth twitch into an answering smile. "Can't have you damaging the pavement with your hard head, can we."

He slumped on the bed, turning onto his side. There was a pause, and then he felt John's arms slide around him. "Okay?" John whispered in his ear, and Paul nodded. It did hurt to have John pressing on the wound - quite badly - but it was worth it to be in his embrace. He'd never admit it (because that would be a _girly_ thing to do and frankly he was tired of being the 'bird' of the group) but he loved John holding him. It made him feel _safe_.

"I thought it was over," Paul muttered.

"It's never gonna be over, is it?" John sighed.

"You're still sleeping on the couch."

"You sound like the worst type of wife," John mumbled.

Paul turned and kissed John lightly. "It'll be all right," he murmured, unsure of whom he was trying to convince.

"It better be," John said darkly, "or I'm snapping Eppy's neck."

_Just a bit more luck._


	12. Chapter 12

_He's on a stage at the top of the world._

_Literally._

_The four of them are balanced on a thin sheet of glass_

_(princess in her tower or is it the other story that involves glass, with the shoe and a ball)_

_so high he cannot see the ground. Only row after row of faces, twisted and melted together. Wax figurines left under the sun, Paul thinks dizzily._

_No one else seems surprised. John is next to him, that stupid cap jammed over his locks, playing with one hand and waving with the other. He can hear Ringo behind him, keeping rhythm, keeping them together._

_To his left George is playing - not the happysad George who is getting sick of all of them, of their music, but George as he first knew him. With his once-a-day smiles and the way he touches his guitar - reverent._

_They're in the middle of a song Paul can't place - simple beat, heavy bass line._

_Ringo crashes on his cymbals and the sound is echoed by a gunshot._

_John falls. Falls and they grab at him, gaping maws, creatures from the kind of books that make you believe in monsters. Not just under the bed, but everywhere. Holding a Beatles button. Waiting for you to fall._

_John falls, and Paul can't see him any more._

"No!"

_The crowd below is howling._

_"John!"_

"Paul?"

_A crack appears in their stage, splitting the band down the middle._

"Paul!"

_Paul screams._

"John!"

"Baby I'm here, shh it's okay, wake up."

_John is lost somewhere among the people. They'll be tearing him apart, ripping him into tiny shreds, a curl of auburn hair here, a contact lens there, scattered to the wind._

"John?"

"It's all right, love, it's all right."

_"John."_

_The stage collapses and he's falling._

Paul wakes suddenly, before he hits the ground, and for a moment he cannot remember anything. He kicks out, trying to find footing, to stop the fall.

"Paul."

John's voice - scared, edges rubbed away by sleep - pulls him back into their room.

"Love?"

"You're all right," he gasps. He pulls John closer and clings to him, ignoring the ache in his chest.

"I'm fine," John assures. "Bad dream?"

_The sea of angry faces. A stage shattering._

"Awful."

John is wise enough not to ask for further details. Instead he scoops Paul up, holds him in his arms. "I can go and yell at Brian some more," he offers. "Or talk to the other two. Maybe if we set fire to our instruments-"

Paul laughs. "What would that do?"

"No instruments means no show," John says with his ridiculous type of logic.

"They'd just get replacements, idiots." Paul gently whacks him over the head. "Would you really sacrifice yer guitar?"

"For the person who means the most to me?" He smiles, not a Beatle-John smile, all publicity, or one of his usual (witty and mocking and _daring_ you to keep up) but something more tender. "Of course."

Paul presses himself against John's chest, breathing in time to his heartbeat.

"John, if...if anything happens tomorrow-"

"Eppy is gonna be one sorry bastard."

Of that Paul did not doubt. "Just, well, y'know."

This isn't some grand moment, staring off into the distance while the music swells. He loves John, and John knows. There is no need to restate it.

"Yeah," John murmurs, "I do." 

They sit there for another few moments, then John declares he needs his beauty sleep - _we're not all fucking lookers like you_ \- and they rest their heads on a pillow.

Curled up together, Paul does not again enter the world of dreams.

 


	13. Chapter 13

_Candlestick Park, San Francisco_

"Paul."

"Yes?"

"If anything happens-"

"We've been through this a thousand times," Paul grumbles. "Make a break for it, I _get_ it."

It's hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. He knows John means well, but talking so much about all the things that could go wrong _(what CAN go wrong WILL go wrong, and damn well you know it)_ seems a bad idea. It's like throwing your door wide open, grabbing trouble with both hands and dragging it in. Paul wants to get on, survive and get off, in that order. He does not want to _think_ about it, he wants to look at John and be out of the moment.

"Tell me wife I love her," John jokes, just like a soldier. _Back to the front I go, dear._

"She knows," Paul answers. _She loves you_

_(yeah yeah yeah)_

_too. S(he) always has._

_(And with a love like that, you know you should be glad...)_

John goes him the thumbs-up and that's it, that's all they can say before they're being told _on in five_ and there's nothing else to say.

"Pattie," George asks more than says, and Paul nods. If George is the one to go down this time _(no perish the thought)_ they'll console his wife. They'll be grief-stricken and furious, but they'll have to pick up the pieces. Paul thinks of telling Louise, always so nice to him, and shivers at the thought.

They march onto the stage, _knees up, eyes right._

And _they're_ waiting. Jumping up and down, waving, yelling. Paul tries to find their true-blue fans, the teenage girls who wouldn't hurt a fly, who love them. But all he can see are people holding out crosses, faces twisted and furious. A beautiful redhead (the type he might try to pull if there wasn't drama and fear and _John_ ) is glowering at him, shaking her fists.

Weak in the legs he turns away, grabs for his guitar. The mike is at the very front of the stage, and walking up to it feels like walking into hell.

He exchanges a quick look with John, who is glaring into the distance. Whether it's fear or just short-sightedness _(wear your bloody glasses, Lennon!)_ Paul can't tell.

"She's A Woman," John orders tersely, and they're off. Racing through the song, awful quality, but it's hard to care. Paul sings into the microphone, voice shaking, and the end cannot come soon enough. Without taking a breath they plunge into the next song, quick quick quick.

John is pressed against him, practically blocking the mike - _he's shielding me_ , Paul thinks in horror - eyes wide with fear but playing. He's almost on top of Paul; if whoever it was tries again, he'll knock them both down. _Bang bang, ducks in a row, try your luck for five quid, how about you madam?_

His vision is blurring, ears ringing. _Don't faint on stage,_ he inwardly screams. _They'll never let you live it down and John will have a heart attack, you know he will, you can't do that to him again._

Someone screams, loud and panicky.


	14. Chapter 14

Someone screams, loud and panicky.

Paul feels his heart stutter to a stop, thinks _run move grab John duck pray fuck no._ Then the scream comes again and he sees it's only a a fan, some girl so happy to see her favourite boys. He should be relieved, but his mind had caught, snagged, on _gun gun gun_. For a moment he forgets to play, his hands freezing on the strings.

_He can still feel the bullet tearing through his flesh._

John looks at him, mouthing "okay?" and Paul nods, forces himself back into action. No one noticed, anyway - hell, you could scream at the top of your lungs and they'd be too caught up in their own noise to hear.

That means if _it_ happens again, if he falls and breaks and can't get up, they might not even notice.

He wishes he hadn't thought that. It takes root in his mind so easily, spilling and spreading, creeping into even the darkest corners.

_You could die any second now, Paul! Just letting you know!_

Third song, only their third song and it's 'I Feel Fine' which is so ironic he almost laughs. Fine and dandy here on the stage, waiting for it all to end.

Third time's lucky, third time's the charm. So he hopes.

George is standing to his left, as far away from the centre as he can be without stepping into the wings. His face is stone _(so what's new)_ and he's playing sloppily, so unlike George, chords half-finished, the tune wavering and falling apart at the seams. Only Ringo (who should be more scared than any of them, he's a fucking sitting duck perched up there) is managing to hold onto the beat.

They stagger to a stop - how's that for the best band of the century - and John grabs the mike, yells, "Last song, you bastards," and screeches into an intro going at ten miles an hour, fast and unwieldy because they need to get _off_ this stage.

Paul doesn't even try to catch up, just puts his mouth to the microphone and sings. A garbled mess of nouns and _ooh_ s spills from his lips, his mind's gone blank and then, sweet merciful lord, it's over. John plays one last chord, piercing and enough to set your teeth on edge, Ringo echoes him with a loud crash.

They don't bow, that would be just asking for trouble. _Hello Mr Sniper, here's my head, please do put a bullet through it._

And he's stumbling off, waiting any second for someone to take a last potshot, a little goodbye wound to see them off. Someone takes his guitar, hands him a bottle of water. He murmurs a thank you and turns to look back, counting heads, making sure.

Ringo, babyblues wide with shock.

George, hands throttling the polished neck of his precious guitar.

John. His John.

They're okay. They made it.

He falls into John's embrace, not caring that people are looking and that he's coated with sweat. John holds him, chest shaking with hysterical laughter because that's John, if he doesn't laugh he'll cry and there's been _far_ too much of that already.

"We did it," George says in a dazed tone.

"I really thought we were in for it during Day Tripper," John says. "Your _playing_ , mate, I was half tempted to throw you to the lions meself."

George flips him the bird and they all hug, knowing they won't talk about this again but for now it's all right.

They're all right.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you all wanted a happy ending?  
> HAHAHAHA

_A random airport in San Francisco_

"Goodbye, you mad fools!"

"Take care of yourselves!"

"Auf Wiedersehen, darl!"

 _Wave, smile, blow kisses._ A routine so familiar Paul could probably carry it out in his sleep. John flirted with everyone and their mums from a distance, Ringo grinned and waved, George just got through it. _Grit your teeth and wait for it to be over. Lie back and think of England._

Unfortunately, Paul - who could usually display a disgusting amount of charm - was not quite up to it. He'd spent the night in John's arms, counting the minutes until they were to head home and trying not to fall asleep (crying like a baby from one nightmare was something you could slip under the rug, but he was loath to do it a second time. Therefore, he spent hours tipping a toe into sleep, never diving in, never allowing his eyes to close for too long). He was exhausted, sore and more than ready to step onto the soil of merry olde England. But oh _no_ , they couldn't just get on the plane because that's not what the Fab Four _do_ , they grin and wave until the end of time.

"Let's just get inside." Paul _tried_ not to beg, tried not to sound like a frightened little boy. He _tried_ , but standing in front of this crowd...well, it still sent a shiver down his spine. They weren't quite safe yet.

"Patience, Paul," Brian said in his _smooth it down, tuck it away_ business voice. "Only a few more minutes, let the fans know you appreciate them."

Paul tried to move around him and Brian, that _git_ , swiftly blocked him. He bit down on the scream building in his throat and looked at John. Who, bless 'im, promptly shifted into protective mode. "Listen, Eppy, if Paul wants to get on that plane then it's fucking happening. Understood?"

"John-"

"Who's calling the shots here, hmm?" John was smiling his dangerous smile, wolf-like and with no cheer. "Who's the _leader_ of this band, and who's just the man who counts the money?"

Brian ducked his head in submission. "On you go, then." John shot the crowd one last look then muttered, softly enough for only Paul to hear, "Won't be letting any of you near my princess again, you bloody idiots."

The princess in question swatted him lightly on the arm. They clambered up the stairs and into the plane, away from the crowds, oh sweet blessed _peace_. Paul found a seat by the window and lowered himself into it with a groan. "Still hurts?" John murmured, slotting in next to him.

"Aye, the show didn't help."

"Could've been worse."

Paul shuddered. "Fuck yes."

He knew the same blood-splattered images were playing in John's head, quick snapshots of bullets and screaming and the _end_.

John made a little pantomime of shaking himself, a dog after the rain trying to get dry again. Trying to shake off a time better forgotten.

"Back we go, lads!" Brian said cheerfully. "Lots to get done back home."

"Hey, you'll get some time with Zak," John called over to Ringo, who gave him a bleary grin; they were all exhausted, all tired of this madness,

"Maybe this year _you'll_ finally get married," George grumbled, pointing an accusing finger at John and Paul.

_Ha, not bloody likely. Not unless we dress Paul up in a frock and 'do' his face because that'd be fine, that's one man one woman, and that's bloody FINE._

"Well, since you've scorned all my advances, I don't know _who_ I'll turn to." John batted his lashes, southern belle, and swooned.

George rolled his eyes. "Don't be a nit, Lennon. I'm sick of the press hounding you both into the ground about it, means we get no room for serious questions."

"Dear naive Georgie-Porgie, they'll ask daft questions even when we're ancient," Ringo chipped in from his seat.

"And if we get married, it'll be all _ohh what's your wife like, what do you two do-"_

"What's the colour of her fucking _bush_ ," Paul contributed. "Better luck next time, Geo."

With a grumble about how they were all gits George settled back in his seat, ready for some shut-eye. Ringo copied him, threatening John and Paul with a very painful death _(do not cross me)_ if they woke him. With Brian at the front in the cockpit, which caused John to raise his eyebrows lecherously and make a few choice comments, they were finally alone. Paul rested his head on John's shoulder, letting out a little sigh of happiness as John placed his hand on Paul's knee. Tiny gesture, sure, but it felt so good to _touch_ freely again. To not hide every affection behind closed doors.

"Maybe this year the bachelor Beatles will get hitched," John said. It was a flip statement, lightly delivered, but his eyes betrayed him. Asking _have you changed your mind?_

Paul subtly covered John's hand with his own.

"If this is the year that it becomes okay..."

John waited, not content with that single breadcrumb.

"Okay to marry the man I _love_ , which is you. Happy now?"

With a grin John leaned into him.

"Do you think we'll ever-" He cut himself off. Too hard to say.

"Ah, Macca." John kissed him on the cheek. "We'll work that all out tomorrow."

_(We can work it out)_

_(We can)_

_We can be together because it's right and it's love._

And as they flew into the sun, Paul let himself hope that one day that truly would be the case.

 

                                                          _Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You got it!  
> Thanks for all the comments


End file.
